Chief among my New Year’s resolutions is to get in shape. Well, let me clarify that. It’s not so much that I want to get in shape. It’s that I want to be hot. A head-turner, to use the lingo of your grandparents; or, hella sexxxy, as the kids today would say. You know, the guy on the beach who makes the people wearing very large, very opaque sunglasses inwardly squeal with delight because they can stare and won’t be caught. A stud, a catch, a find, a hot piece, a mighty mighty good man.
I’ve never had much luck trying to accomplish this on my own. I took such failures in stride, shifting blame to a higher power. The way I saw it, I was already an exceedingly self-centered and arrogant person; if I had a body to match the attitude, there would be no end to how insufferable I would be. But this year, I decided to stop blaming myself or some intangible ethereal essence and take some serious action. I joined a new gym in the neighborhood and signed up for twelve sessions with a personal trainer. This morning, ladies and gentleman, at 6:00, the transformation began.
I was met at the front desk by Jason, my amiable motivator and fellow early riser. To start, Jason told me to take a five minute warm-up run on an elliptical. Piece of cake. I hardly broke a sweat. Having lulled me into a false sense of security, Jason then decided it was time to get a handle on my agility, balance, and coordination. To do that, he launched me into a battery of drills and exercises that, to be blunt, knocked the crap out of me: step-ups, sit-ups, leg lifts, push-ups, and a shuttle run. A shuttle run! I haven’t done a shuttle run since the twelfth grade. And I haven’t taken one seriously since maybe the seventh!
After a point, Jason had determined where my weaknesses lay, and I had determined that my intestines were constricting around the rest of my internal organs, National Geographic-style. The bathroom door a few paces from the water fountain was too much to ignore, and by 6:15, I was knelt before the porcelain throne, voiding my already empty guts.
I opened the door to find Jason dutifully waiting outside. “You okay?” he asked. “Better now,” I answered.
As we got back into the routine, I apologized for my weak constitution. “Was that the fastest you lost someone to the bathroom?” I asked. “No,” he said, “I once had someone puke three minutes into a run on the treadmill.” “Wow,” I said, trying to keep the image from my mind, but wholly unable to. “Did it, like, roll back and around on the belt?” “I try not to remember it,” he replied.
Some bench presses, lunges, shoulder lifts, and bicep curls later, we were at the end of our first hour. My shirt was so soaked that the owner Mike, who had probably been watching this spectacle all hour long, dubbed it “movie sweat”, in that I was so completely drenched, it looked as if my perspiration had simply been sprayed on with a hose. No, sir, that was all me. Before leaving, Jason gave me an idea of what kind of program he’d be putting together for me, and some guidelines for what to do at the gym when I’m alone. We set our next session for Thursday morning, shook on it, and went our separate ways. For the rest of the day, I felt great. I wore the fact that aside from the ill, hung-over, or pregnant, I was likely the only person in a four block radius vomiting before dawn as a badge of honor. And I can’t wait to do it again!
Work out, that is.